


Greater Love Hath No Man

by imaginary_golux



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, but not the transformed one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: Yves didn't believe in magic...up until he ended up with four paws and atail.Beta by my ever-sweet Best Beloved, Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw.





	Greater Love Hath No Man

Yves had not, up until a few scant moments ago, truly _believed_ in witchcraft. He had never seen a witch do aught that could not be explained by a little investigation using Brother Cadfael’s clever methods, and though he trusts most devoutly in _miracles_ \- was not his own childhood rescue one? - he has long held that _witchcraft_ is entirely flummery, fit only to be disregarded.

Looking down at his paws - _paws!_ \- Yves thinks that perhaps his earlier beliefs may have been...flawed.

“My God!” Olivier says, behind him. “Lady, what have you _done?_ ”

The witch says, sheepishly, “He startled me.”

“ _Startled?_ ” Olivier demands. Yves turns around slowly, clumsy on four limbs, and Olivier drops to one knee, hand outstretched and shaking. “Yves, my heart, dost know me yet?”

Yves wags his tail. Oh, God have mercy upon him, he has a _tail_.

“It will wear off at the new moon,” the witch says nervously, behind him.

“Five days,” Olivier says grimly.

“Yes,” the witch says. “I - _am_ sorry, truly.”

“It is a sorry thanks you have given us, for coming to warn you of the village’s wrath,” Olivier observes. “Cannot you lift this curse?”

“I cannot,” the witch says miserably. “Only time can do so, or true love. But I swear to you I have done no harm to those of the village, and their wrath is cruelly misplaced.”

Yves barks. He’s only been paying about half of his attention to the conversation; the rest of his attention has been given over to figuring out how to work his new limbs and discovering all the many exciting new scents and sounds which, as a human, he could not detect at all. The witch’s house smells like Brother Cadfael’s herbarium, but a thousand times over; Olivier smells like sweat and leather and metal and - in some strange way Yves does not quite understand - worry.

“Despite your curse on my companion, I _do_ believe you,” Olivier says, and stands. Yves, obeying some canine instinct, leans against Olivier’s legs. “You have very little time; if you flee now, perhaps you will escape them, but if you stay even another hour -”

“I go,” the witch says, and does so, not even bothering to latch the door behind her. Olivier sighs and looks down at Yves.

“Come, my heart,” he says. “I suppose we must find some inn or other, and wait until the new moon.”

Yves wags his tail again, and falls into step beside Olivier rather less gracefully than is his usual wont. He is reminded, rather embarrassingly, of seeing puppies learning to walk; they are sadly inelegant for the first several weeks of life, all paws and ears. Olivier moderates his pace so that Yves can keep up, which is a kindness, and after a few steps Yves starts to understand how this new body works, and can feel his ears pricking up in renewed good cheer.

“You are a very handsome mastiff, my heart,” Olivier says gently after a few moments. A guard dog; well, that is not so ill, then. At least Yves is not some lady’s lapdog, all yap and fluff. Yves makes a soft sound, not quite a bark, and Olivier puts a hand down to rest gently on Yves’s head, a welcome caress.

The innkeeper shows no surprise at a knight and his dog, and provides a tiny private room, its mattress rustling to Yves’s new ears with the quiet sounds of insects and even mice. He discovers he is growling at the bed. Olivier chuckles.

“Does the bed displease you so, my heart?”

Yves thinks a moment - he can’t _speak_ to explain, which is the worst part of this whole curse, actually, far worse than the inconvenience of four legs or the distinct humiliation of a tail - and then, as quietly as he can, pads around the bed to where he can hear the mice and nudges the bed firmly with his nose. The squeaks of dismay from within are clearly audible, even to human ears.

“Ah,” Olivier says, amusement clear in his voice. “Well, I have shared a bed with worse ere now. I do not think they will distress me overmuch, with so fierce a companion.”

Yves’s tail wags, rather against his will.

*

They’ve shared beds before, when traveling, but Yves is rather dismayed to find that his new form prefers to curl itself at Olivier’s feet than to stretch out beside him. It’s...a little too honest. Yves has too much pride to admit aloud the depth of his devotion to his companion, but this form leaves him little choice. Still, if God is kind Olivier will think it _only_ the dog’s body, and not Yves’s mind.

In the morning, Olivier suggests they go hunting in the nearby woods, and Yves can feel his ears prick up in excitement. It turns out, to his astonished pleasure, that this form is _wonderful_ for hunting. He brings three rabbits to lay at Olivier’s feet in the first two hours of their excursion, and then - since three rabbits is quite enough, really - simply enjoys romping in the forest at his friend’s side. The smells and sounds are delightful, Olivier’s bright laughter is a joy, and the brisk morning is quite comfortable with a coat of fur on. It is, frankly, an idyllic morning.

And then, as they wander together through another beautiful clearing, Yves scents something half-familiar. It’s...musky, and _strong_ , and he stops and sniffs the air, trying to decipher it. Olivier pauses beside him, looking down in curiosity. “What is it, my heart?” he asks quietly. 

Yves turns, slowly, trying to find where the scent is coming from, and trying to recall where he has smelled something like this before. It _is_ familiar, and it’s getting closer -

He stops, staring in horror, as the boar steps out of the undergrowth. Beside him, Olivier draws in a sharp breath, and freezes in place. Boars have terrible eyesight - if they are lucky, if God is kind, it will not see them if they are still as stone.

The boar snuffles once - twice - and a bird calls, loud and shocking in the still air. One of Yves’s damned unruly ears twitches, and that is enough. The boar narrows its crimson eyes and snorts, pawing at the earth, working itself up to charge.

Yves _will_ not let it have Olivier. Before Olivier _or_ the boar can react, he launches himself forward, growling like thunder deep in his chest, and flings himself upon the creature. He knows it is folly - boar-hunting is best done with a dozen men and thrice as many hounds - but perhaps, distracted by his mad charge, the boar will forget Olivier. That is the only thought in Yves’s mind.

And then there is no time for thought at all, as he is locked in mortal combat with a monster thrice his size, and he is yet clumsy in this unwonted form. He only barely manages to roll out of the way of its jaws, and one flailing hoof nicks his shoulder, drawing first blood; but then he has his jaws around the boar’s throat, and as he clings there he makes himself an oath: he will not let loose until one of them is dead.

How long he clings, jaws clenched so tightly he is not sure he _can_ loose them, as the boar bucks and squeals and lashes out, battering Yves with its hooves and once managing to savage his rump when he does not writhe out of the way swiftly enough, Yves does not know. He _does_ know that he is losing blood far more swiftly than is safe, that there is every likelihood that this is his death-battle, and he claws at the boar with everything he has, and bites down harder, harder, ever harder - and there is this: the boar is so preoccupied with Yves that surely, _surely_ Olivier has been able to make his escape.

And then, at last, the boar squeals, a horrible high sound that hurts Yves’s ears, and falls to the forest floor, scrabbling weakly in its death throes. Yves lies there atop it, not sure if he _can_ let go, not sure if he has the strength to drag himself away.

Then there are gentle hands upon him, coaxing his jaws open, and Yves opens his eyes - when did he close them? - to see Olivier kneeling beside him, eyes wide with horror and dismay. “My heart, my heart,” he is murmuring, and Yves whines a little, not liking the scent of sorrow on his dearest companion. He manages to turn his head a little, to see that Olivier’s sword is run through the boar’s heart like a spear; to see also that his own side is a bloody wreck, where hooves and teeth alike have ravaged him. Ah. This is his deathbed, then.

“Yves, my gallant,” Olivier whispers, “you must not die so - Yves, look at me, stay yet within this world - I shall find you a healer, you will be well -”

Yves wants to say that he knows such wounds are fatal, that he does not mind dying if it has kept Olivier safe, but the words come out as a whine so plaintive it makes him cringe, and Olivier, weeping, bends down to press his lips to Yves’s forehead.

“Yves, my heart, my love,” he says desperately -

And there is an indescribable moment, half pain and half ecstasy -

And Yves finds himself lying, unharmed and _human_ , in Olivier’s lap.

“ _Yves,_ ” Olivier breathes in shocked wonder.

“Olivier,” Yves says, just as startled. “What - how -”

Olivier’s eyes grow even wider in sudden understanding. “My heart,” he says gently, “the witch told us that you would be delivered by the new moon -”

Yves remembers all in a sudden rush. “Or by true love,” he finishes the thought.

“And what truer love is there but to die for a friend?” Olivier says, shaking his head a little.

“More than a friend,” Yves says. He has spent a day and a night as a hound, and nearly died - suddenly confessing all seems _far_ less terrifying than remaining silent any longer. “Far more, in truth.”

“Ah,” Olivier breathes, and there is a light of adoration in his golden eyes that Yves never dared hope to see. “Then, in all truth, my heart, art more by far than a friend to me.”

“I shall have to thank that witch,” Yves says thoughtfully, and reaches up to pull Olivier down. Olivier comes willingly, chuckling soundlessly as he does, and their lips meet at last, tasting of copper blood and laughter and sweet love.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 3 of the February Ficlet Challenge.
> 
> I am imaginarygolux on tumblr.


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